


Seclusion

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Constipation, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oblivious Harold, Pining, sort of - well you know my usual style, these idiots are so bad with feelings sometimes, very background though - Freeform, warning for background 'John being deliberately reckless'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 13:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14426211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: It becomes something of a habit after that, not that Harold notices at first. The habit sneaks up on him, silently, just the way his feelings for his partner had, just the way said partner had slipped past his defences and into Harold’s heart. John will invite him, to a restaurant or to a movie, to a café or to his home, and Harold will decline, politely and with true remorse but inevitably.





	Seclusion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luckythirteen45](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luckythirteen45/gifts).



> Happy brithday, Lucky!! I hope you've had a lovely day and that this isn't too late yet (fuck timezones) and that it might contribute to that. I wish you all the best ♥

It’s impossible to ignore John’s presence behind him, how he hovers just behind Harold, looking over his shoulder, close enough that Harold imagines he can feel it, warm like a ray of afternoon sun on a dark suit, familiar and comforting. It’s indeed nothing more than his imagination of course, and he pushes the instinctive sense of comfort aside, lets himself tense up instead even though he knows his body will hardly thank him later.

“I’m almost finished here, Mr Reese, I will have all the money returned to the charities Mr Lucas stole it from in a few minutes, with an appropriate, additional donation from Mr Lucas’ personal funds, of course. You should go home, get some rest.”

“Thought maybe we could go to that Italian place on 44th street? I heard they make a great lasagne.”

He keeps his gaze firmly on his monitors, on the lines of code and the bank statements he just accessed, but his hands still, giving his hesitation away. The reflection of John’s suit is blurry on the matte screen and he wants to turn around to look at him but he doesn’t. He knows he will give in if he sees the soft, hopeful look he knows John must be wearing.

“I’m afraid I’ll be quite busy tonight. I still have several other projects to complete and need to make sure our aliases are properly maintained. Perhaps another time.”

By the shift in the reflection – or probably more by simply knowing him as well as he does – he knows John is nodding despite the unhappy twist that must be pulling at his lips, and even the knowledge of that twist’s presence makes something fragile and hidden in Harold’s heart crack slightly.

“Alright. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Finch.”

It’s an exercise of will to keep his eyes on the computer. John’s hand finds his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze and immediately, all the carefully accumulated tension bleeds from Harold’s body even as he fights the urge to lean into the contact. There is no pretending Harold’s full focus isn’t on the almost-reflection of him when he turns and walks away, footsteps light and a little slower than usual.

“Good night, Mr Reese.” he makes himself say, even though the words try to cling to the inside of his throat and any that would ask John to stay would be so much easier to let slip, even when that is what his heart urges him to do. Ask him to stay, or remain silent.

It’s worth the effort to hear the smile in John’s voice. “Night, Harold. Don’t overwork yourself.”

The footsteps recede and fade out and Harold’s hands still haven’t moved, lying uselessly with their fingertips on the last keys he pressed. Now that there is no more reflection to see, his eyes close on their own volition and it takes several seconds until his pained expression is safely hidden behind a mask of calm neutrality, even if there is no one here to see it.

Outside, beyond cracked glass and tarpaulin, traffic is rushing, a seagull screams and a little closer, possibly in one of the nooks in the building’s façade, pigeons curr. And yet, the silence in the library seems deafening, leaving his thoughts too loud in the absence of the keys clicking underneath his fingers, in the absence of John’s breathing.

Every time, he lies to himself that the silence will help him focus, that being alone is better than having John so close and yet unreachable, wanting nothing more than to touch and to hold but knowing that while the touches themselves might be even welcome, surely the sentiment behind them would not be. It isn’t. After all this time, he really ought to know better. His own mind can torture his heart much more efficiently than John’s presence ever could, he had merely been able to ignore his heart until a week ago.

“ _Sorry Finch.”_

Now it’s the memory he ignores even as John’s words echo and the scene they’re attached to replays itself on a loop in the back of his mind. With a sigh, he forces his fingers to resume their work.

* * *

It becomes something of a habit after that, not that Harold notices at first. The habit sneaks up on him, silently, just the way his feelings for his partner had, just the way said partner had slipped past his defences and into Harold’s heart. John will invite him, to a restaurant or to a movie, to a café or to his home, and Harold will decline, politely and with true remorse but inevitably.

“I’m terribly busy tonight.”

“I’d love to, but I’m afraid Harold Crane has a previous business engagement.”

“You’ve had an exhausting day Mr Reese, please put my mind at ease and get some rest.”

“Another time.”

“Tomorrow perhaps.”

“I really am terribly sorry.”

It sneaks up on him like the habit of flinching away from John’s touches, in hopes of preventing the need to lean in, to hold on, to reach back from becoming overwhelming. Anything, so long as while John is present he can still pretend that he doesn’t long to step close and reach up and kiss him with every fibre of his being. And each time, John’s lips get that unhappy little twist and Harold averts his eyes before he can give in and kiss it away.

And each time, he is left alone to the silence and the memory.

“ _Sorry Finch. First thing I could think of; the agency taught us that trick.”_

* * *

The carton of take-out – his favourite, he notes absentmindedly and with a smile – is warm in his hands, but his skin still feels strangely cold when John’s fingers don’t brush his. It doesn’t seem to matter when John’s answering smile is wide and open and radiant, but it fades all too soon. He doesn’t sit down wordlessly the way once would have, before what Harold has silently begun to refer to as the _Incident_ , doesn’t offer to stay and keep Harold company and it’s with a start and something that feels distinctly like a shard of ice slicing through his lugs that he doesn’t do so because he knows he will be rejected.

There is no audible smile in his voice when he says “Night, Finch.” and his hand doesn’t come up to briefly, gently squeeze Harold’s shoulder.

The place where Harold didn’t even realise he expected the touch seems to burn with cold and the silence feels all the more pressing than usual. His neck and back ache from the persistent tension in his muscles and his fingers don’t find the keyboard again tonight.

“ _Sorry Finch. First thing I could think of; the agency taught us that trick. PDA makes people uncomfortable so they’ll overlook you. You okay?”_

* * *

John is injured for the second time this week, it’s merely a shallow cut – by now he regrettably has enough experience to recognise even through the grainy footage of the traffic camera that the number is hardly an expert fighter and it surprises him that John sustained any injury at all – but one that still requires cleaning and bandaging. And as much as Harold trusts him, he does not trust John to take proper care of himself.

The biting smell of antiseptic has long become familiar as he drenches a piece of gauze in it and cleans the dried blood off John’s ribs and it occurs to him that his hands stopped shaking with nervousness before he begins this task. It’s not that he has become comfortable with this, precisely, but there is a certain amount of routine there. John’s skin is warm and smooth, feeling downright luxurious, and it takes more self-discipline than he wants to admit even to himself to keep his hands from lingering.

He missed this, that he does have to admit to himself, missed the simplicity of touching another person, someone he trusts and cares for. Loves. He may never have been a particularly tactile person, but to go without any sort of physical contact at all is as unhealthy for him as it is for anyone else, regardless of his more subjective thoughts on the matter. John however, is much more inclined to touch and leans into every brush of Harold’s hands now, doesn’t flinch at the sting of the antiseptic and merely watches Harold with a small, soft, content looking smile. Harold thinks of absent, almost-accidental brushes of fingers, of the equally absent hand on his shoulder each night and a rush of guilt floods his tongue with bitterness.

“You really ought to be more careful.” he mutters, half distracted, half trying to distract himself, though the upset in his voice is obvious and entirely genuine.

“Sorry Finch.”

Harold swallows thickly, pathetically careful that the ever observant operative cannot see his face from this angle and focuses on sticking the butterfly bandages over the cut, then larger bandage above them to protect them, smoothing his hands one last time over the adhesive tape.

“There, all set.”

“Aw, you’re not gonna kiss it better?”

Harold wants to side-eye him or perhaps sigh in exasperation like he usually might, like he would have done before the Incident, but his heart sees it fit to skip a beat only to the clench painfully with bitter longing. He doesn’t meet John’s eyes, turns away to dispose of the gauze, then retrieves a spare shirt for him.

“You should go home, Mr Reese.”

Without waiting for a reply, he sits down at his desk and opens a program at random. His fingers type by muscle memory, producing flawless code and he listens to John’s breath, listens to him moving around behind him, Harold’s eyes catching the vague reflection of him on the screen every now and then, until he hears the “Night, Finch.” It’s softer than usual, something strangely, heartbreakingly sombre in John’s voice. The footsteps seem to fall slightly heavier, until distance has them fade into silence once again.

_John’s hand is clenched tightly around his arm, taking some of his weight, but even so, Harold’s leg is slowing them down and he can hear the heavy footfalls of their number’s hired guns approaching rapidly. Next to him, he sees John swallow as he takes in their surroundings, presumably to find them somewhere to hide or at least a point of strategic advantage. The tension in John’s frame increases, telling Harold wordlessly that there is none beyond the almost-darkness of a New York night._

_They come to a halt and before Harold can so much as give him a questioning look, John pulls him into a doorway and Harold finds himself tightly pressed in between the cold bricks behind him and John’s warm body plastered to his front. And then John’s arms are around him and John’s lips touching his and reality stops seeming all that important as they open for Harold’s just as a quiet, surprised noise leaves him. His body finally catches on even though his mind doesn’t, one of his hands finding the small of John’s back and his other his neck, feeling the flutter of his pulse racing in tune with Harold’s own. Somewhere on the edge of his awareness, the footsteps come closer and slow for a moment, only to pick up their pace again, passing them, vanishing into the night._

_They’re both breathless when they pull apart and after a second, John clears his throat and speaks the words that make Harold’s unexpectedly, foolishly hopeful heart sink. “Sorry Finch. First thing I could think of; the agency taught us that trick. PDA makes people uncomfortable so they’ll overlook you. You okay?”_

* * *

He can feel John’s presence behind him, lingering, like the warmth of the sun on a dark suit and Harold doesn’t lift his eyes from his monitor, doesn’t allow his fingers to cease their movement, no matter how acutely he is aware of the other. He half expects another invitation for dinner or a movie or just an evening in quiet company and he steels himself to decline despite there being few things he wishes for more in this moment. Another part of him expects John to simply leave as he has been doing painfully regularly now, expects to miss the touch on his shoulder and the smile in his voice when he bids him good night.

Instead, John just remains there, tense and quiet, while Harold keeps working, pretending he doesn’t want to turn around to him, to reach out and take his hand, to hold on to him and maybe lean in and steal a kiss. Pretends he doesn’t still feel the phantom sensation of that one kiss burning on his lips.

It takes a long while for John to break the silence, and in the meanwhile, Harold is grateful for his presence as his fingers move quickly and every bug, every problem simply seems to unravel under his keystrokes as long as they’re accompanied by the sound of John’s breaths, by the awareness that he isn’t alone.

“What did I do, Harold?”

Now his hands still and he can’t help it. John’s voice sounds so quietly sad, cautious and broken and it tears at Harold’s heart, so he turns around, only to find him looking strangely diminished, face nearly expressionless but his grey-blue eyes filled with anguish. A lump swells in his own throat, keeping the words in even if he knew which ones to say. This time, it’s John who averts his eyes, avoids his gaze.

“It’s about me kissing you, isn’t it? I’m sorry, you’re right, I shouldn’t have done that. I get it if you don’t want to see me for a while, just please… Please don’t make me leave, I’ll give you as much distance as you need, as long as you need, just… Please let me keep working with you.”

Of course. He should have known John would see the fault in himself, and his own guilt fills his veins with ice, rips at his heart and he wishes for just a fraction of a moment he hadn’t made John the promise to refrain from lying to him. His hand clenches, nails leaving crescent-shapes indents stinging in his palm, but he doesn’t turn away.

“No, John, this isn’t… I have been quite distant lately, and unfairly so, and I can assure you that it’s nothing you need to blame yourself for, not when I am the one who created my own predicament.”

John’s laugh is dry and bitter and disbelieving. “Really, Harold? The old _it’s not you it’s me_? ”

“Well, as cliché as it might be, it is applicable just as well. After all, it isn’t you who has gone and developed an inappropriate interest in his employee. I hoped some distance might help me overcome my feelings for you.”

John gapes at him and Harold makes himself stay, stops himself from turning around or fleeing the building, the city, the state, from vanishing behind a new name and leaving no traces for even a man of John’s skills to find, like his instincts demand he does. Instead, he makes himself smile even though he knows it looks soft and fond and resigned, lays the remnants of his much-broken heart bare for John to see, after all, this is the least he deserves after everything Harold put him through.

“Has it?” John’s voice is hoarse, even more so than usual, threatening to break under the strain of some emotion Harold can’t seem to identify. “Has it helped, I mean?”

He feels a mournful frown belie his smile, feels the corner of his lips tremble. “Unfortunately not quite yet, but I promise, I won’t let it affect our working relationship more than it already has, and I’m sure I’ll manage to get over this... inconvenience eventually.”

“What if… what if I don’t want you to?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I follow.”

He watches in confusion as John takes a step closer to him, holds out a hand that shakes just a little, with an uncertain smile, but that seems to be the extend of Harold’s self-restraint and he lets himself reach for John’s hand. Lets himself be pulled to his feet even if it brings them close enough to nearly touch, the space between them reduced to all but a few inches. His breath catches when he feels John’s hand caress his face, gentle as though he is something precious and breakable.

“Can I?” John asks quietly, nervously, and just like the first time all those weeks ago, it’s Harold’s body that catches on first when he feels John’s breath ghost over his lips, it’s his eyes falling shut on their own and it’s his heart that makes him close what little distance remains and to feel John’s lips on his own again is bliss.

It’s softer than before, still containing the nervousness, the uncertainty, the hesitance, but it tastes of hope and incredulous joy and something close to perfection. Harold’s hands find their previous places on John’s back and over his pulse point as if they’ve always belonged there and it’s the hitch in John’s breathing when they part that finally pulls his mind into this new reality. John’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and all the tension he has carried for weeks now bleeds from Harold’s body. He knows there is nothing mournful about his smile anymore when they lean their foreheads together, silently sharing relief and joy and everything they don’t dare to speak aloud just yet, exchanging soft pecks in between.

“I don’t want you to get over it.” John whispers against his lips eventually. “’cause I sure as hell never will.”

There is no suppressing the soft laugh that escapes Harold, overwhelmed and giddy with relief. “Excellent.” he murmurs, kissing him again, deeper this time with a hint of heat seeping into it as unintentional as it is natural and a shiver of delight runs through him at the soft noise it pulls from John. “Because in that case, I assure you I have no intention to do so either, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you liked it? Any comments have my eternal love and appreciation!!! :)


End file.
